She drops her pencil, her bare slender arms reaching up to fiddle with it. She messes with it for two seconds before continuing writing. It’s even more of a mess now.
“You’ve made it worse,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
She turns to me now —finally —and her brown eyes narrow. “Thanks for the play-by-play, Branson. That’s really helping. Doyouwant to sort it out?”
She’s willingly asking me to touch her. Well, not her, but her hair. And her hair is fucking gorgeous. It’s long —too fucking long— dark brown, but not black and always with a ribbon. There's no way. I must have heard her wrong because Scarlett Voss would never invite me to touch her.
“What?” I gawk.
“Did you hear me or what? I don’t have a mirror and we’re going to waste time if I go to the bathroom to fix it. Can you do it or is it beyond your capabilities?” she asks, tilting her head playfully.
I don't even flinch at the insult and instead ask, “Are you sure?”
She sighs. “You know what, on second thought, that bathroom break is looking really good,” she groans, standing up.]
Uh, no. Not happening.
I tug on her elbow, pulling her back down to me. Her eyes widen at the sudden contact of my hand on her skin. I gently nudge her into the desk, and she sits on the table, half of her body hanging off it as she angles herself towards me.
I stand up, moving behind her. “Can you be quiet for two minutes?” I ask, not touching her yet.
She shrugs and I can tell she probably rolled her eyes too. I take a deep breath. It’s not a big deal at all. I’ve tied a hundred bows in my life after my mom left and my dad wanted presents to look authentic. Still, this is different. Because it’sher.
Seeing her like this, finally quiet, below me, her posture straight, has my thoughts going straight into the gutter. I imagine how she would look on her knees, that ribbon tied around her wrists instead of her hair.
I watch her shudder as I undo the ribbon slowly, letting it fall, while keeping one hand in the half of the silky hair that almost melts in my hands. I should not be allowed to touch her like this. Not when I'm getting hard just by doing it. She takes in a sharp breath and my breathing shallows. I finally do what she asked, gently but firmly tying the bow so it looks good and is secure enough.
“Are you done?” she asks. She thinks I don’t notice the subtle way she clears her throat, but I do.
“No,” I lie, fiddling with her hair because why is it so fucking soft? It’s so tempting, yet it feels so wrong. So dirty. “Why do you always have these in? I can’t figure you out.”
She ignores me and asks again: “Are you done?”
“Scarlett,” I press, urging her to answer my question. I tug on her hair, the same way I did at the restaurant, but this time I angle her towards me, her delicate face tilted up. When she looks at me, her mouth parts in a gasp, her pupils dilated. Interesting. I release my hold on her hair and her shoulders sag.
“What?” she bites out.
“Can you answer my question?”
She holds my stare. “I don’t need to answer anything.” She stands up and turns fully until she’s right in front of me. I straighten, naturally towering over her, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she raises her chin, triumphant as if she’s realised something. “I gave you two chances to tell me the truth, and you lied both times. I’m not an idiot, Branson. I can tell that you just wanted your hands on me.”
In a way that she usually does, she doesn’t sound like she’s complaining. She doesn’t sound like she’s disgusted by the idea of me wanting to touch her. She just seems like she wants to know. Or she wants her theories to be confirmed more like.
I give her the bait. “Then why did you let me do it?”
“You wanted to touch me,” she says again as if that makes this make more sense. “I was going to let it carry on. See how long it would take for you to say something, to make you crack. And then you did. You think I don’t know you, Ev, but I do. Especially after the other night. I can see right through you sometimes.”
Fuck.
“Really? Then what am I thinking right now, Angel.”
“You want me,” she says. Of course, I do. I have since freshman year, and I’ve denied it ever since. How could I not? She’s a fucking magnet. “I don’t know why. I mean, of course, I do. I’m a catch. But why you?That’swhat I don’t get. It makes sense now. All the touches, the glances, the helping. You want me.”
I don’t believe that she’s not affected by me for a second. So, I inch closer to her, leaning down as our fronts are practically touching. She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as she tries to keep eye contact with me. She does for five seconds now before dropping her gaze to my chest.
“I don’t want you,” I lie. The last thing I need is to complicate this when we’ve got the project and the mystery to figure out. “You drive me insane, Scarlett.”
“Yeah, and you let me.”
